I Shall Not Live In Vain
by Min Daae
Summary: On the way out, there are things that need to be said. Future-fic, vaguely.


There are a few things Winchesters learn and learn well. Fanatical devotion to the nearest family member. How to treat just about every conceivable wound and how to know when a hospital is a necessary evil. The right weapon to use for taking down a wendigo, poltergeist, djinn.

Everyone gets to the end of the line eventually.

They're bad at that one, though. Really bad.

Sam still knows a 'that's all, folks' when he sees one. The train's winding down and he's finally getting off. Four or five or six deaths later. He supposes everyone dies for real eventually; sometimes it just takes a while for them to figure out.

It's not even a particularly elegant death. None of them are, though there are some that are better than others. Bleeding out because of some broken glass you missed climbing out of a grave is not one of them. And okay, it was a _lot _of broken glass, but still. The ghost was already gone and everything. It's just _sad. _

Doesn't that just figure.

And it's cloudy besides, no stars to watch, though snow isn't too bad, as things go. Sucks, on the other hand, since now he has to wonder which is going to get him first, hypothermia or blood loss. It's pretty much a tossup, though he's betting on blood loss.

And Sam's staring at his cell phone like he's never seen it before, flipped open, the little bar of light on _Dean _in his address book. He should call. He should have called ages ago. Maybe before he got to here.

If wishes were fishes.

He presses the call button and holds the phone up to his ear. One ring, two…this is probably a bad idea. Dean could be out of range, or sexing up some girl, or getting a beer and ignoring his phone. Three rings.

The phone picks up. _"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Hello?" _

Dean was having a conversation with someone. Whoops. "Is this a bad time?" He says. Wow. What a dumbass, telemarketer thing to say. Then again, Sam only has about one and a half cylinders left to fire on. He won't be too hard on himself.

There is a long pause, and Dean's voice is sour with disbelief. "What kind of a question is that?" And the tone is belligerent enough, and the pause long enough, that Sam knows Dean checked the number and knows who it is.

Well, he called, didn't he? "Hi," Sam says, and adds, "Sorry," just for good measure. He can hear the sound of Dean covering his mouth with his hand and cursing into it. "If now isn't-"

"I'm not the one who fell off the face of the earth. Do you want something?"

"Ouch, Dean," Sam says, and then adds, "Hmm," thoughtfully, because the bleeding seems to be slowing and the snow is coming down faster. Maybe he bet wrong.

There is another pause. "Are you drunk?" Dean asks, finally. Sam laughs.

"Come on. My voice doesn't sound that funny, does it?"

"Get to the point, Sam," growls his brother's voice, and Sam wants to tell him to just keep talking, because it doesn't really matter what anyone says at this point and he'd rather listen to his brother ramble than what he wants to try to say. "You haven't called in months. What's – are you all right?" There, worry. That would have been gratifying about four months ago, when it wasn't too late. Or even fifteen minutes ago, when it wasn't too late.

"Yeah," he says, glibly. Some snowflakes land on his leg and turn red. "Yeah, I'm fine. Listen, I just – do you have a minute?"

"I can make a minute," Dean says, after a few nerve-wracking seconds. His brother sounds hostile, but hostile is better than cold, which is what it was the last time they talked. Which was months ago. That would have seemed weird at one point. Things have kind of gone haywire since then. "As long as it's not research or something. Hold on."

Sam listens to Dean excusing himself from wherever he is, picturing grin and swagger and everything. He can hear the low rumble of voices on the other end of the line, but not a word of what they're saying. The snow is coming down in quick little flurries, sticking to the ground. Sam shivers a little and doesn't let his teeth clatter into the phone.

It seems like forever before his brother's back with a gruff, "Yeah?" Sam smiles.

"It's snowing here."

"Sammy, did you call to talk about the _weather?_" Dean sounds halfway between annoyed and amused, and hey, _Sammy _must have just slipped out. He won't call Dean on it.

"No. Not really. Just…hm. It's kind of hard to know where to start, you know."

Dean groans. "Shit. You _are _in trouble."

"No, really," Sam says, quickly, "I'm fine." He switches hands and tucks his numbing left hand into his armpit. "Seriously. I've just been thinking about…stuff. You know." He pauses, for dramatic effect. "You're awesome."

"…okay, take it back. Not in trouble. Drunk. Sam, where the fuck are you?"

"Doesn't matter," Sam says quickly, and shifts uncomfortably, but then he has to grit his teeth to keep from making a sound. "And I'm not drunk. You're awesome. Like with the cereal. You always gave me the last of the cereal. God, I was a bratty little kid. You're a freaking saint, you know? I mean, other than all the – booze and shit."

He does sound drunk, Sam realizes. Shit. He can hear Dean sigh like this is the last thing he wants to be doing right now. "Sam," he starts.

"No," Sam says, quickly. "Sorry. That's not – that's stupid. And not what I meant to say." He takes a deep breath and tries to focus, even if his body keeps trying to shake and it's getting harder to hold it all still and together. "What I mean is, you put up with a lot of shit. From me especially. And that sucks and I'm sorry, but mostly, I'm glad it's you, because anyone else would have screwed it up way worse."

"Worse?" Dean's tone is sharp. "Yeah, thanks, Sammy. Look, I think you should get back to wherever the fuck you're staying and sleep it-"

"Hold on," Sam said, loudly. "I'm not done. Maybe later." He doesn't really know why he's not telling Dean that he's dying. Maybe because Dean might find a way to sacrifice himself and 'fix' it. Just like all the other 'fixing' and how it really didn't work.

Things Winchesters never learned: how to let go.

Sam's working on it, though.

Dean makes an exasperated noise. "Look. I'm not sure what you're getting at but now's not the time to hash out your issues with me, or whatever,"

"That's just it," Sam interrupts, perhaps sounding a little more drunk than he means to because his voice kind of trips and stumbles. "It's not about you. It's about me. I don't really – well, I have issues. With you. But it's not your fault. You didn't do anything wrong. I guess that's – that's the important bit. You didn't do anything wrong."

His armpit is no longer any warmer than the surrounding air. Sam frowns a little and looks at his leg. The snow flakes aren't turning red anymore. He wonders if the blood's frozen. He's pretty sure that's not possible, not at this temperature.

Dean's silent for ages. Then Sam hears him clear his throat. "Sam?" He says.

Sam sighs. "I think that's it," he says, finally, and this time his teeth do chatter and clack loudly. "—can go now. Just wanted to-"

"Don't hang up," says Dean, and Sam is still enough of who he was that he doesn't hang up just because Dean said not to. "Sam. You said it was snowing. Are you…uh, outside?"

"Heating's not working," Sam says, even though he promised himself a while ago that he was done lying to Dean. "I'm waiting on some more blankets."

"Look, I just-" Silence. Sam listens to Dean breathe and waits. Finally, "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yeah," Sam says. His eyes cross to look at the flake of snow on the tip of his nose. His whole body spasms. "Yeah, I'm good."

More silence. Then, "Liar."

"What?" Sam opens his eyes blearily. He didn't even realize they were closed. The cold's getting to him, or something is. He feels heavy and tired, and remembers how little he's slept in so long.

"Your voice is all slurred. You're talking about stupid kid memories and guilt-tripping all over your stupid-ass long legs. And you called me. So either you're drunk off your ass or-" He hears Dean grimace, or thinks he can. "Or hurt. So which is it?"

It's like his mouth moves without thinking about it. "Neither." It's true, sort of. He's dying, not hurt or drunk. "I'm fine. Just wanted to talk to m'brother. Said everything I wanna say." His whole body seizes up, and he clamps down on the noise of pain he wants to make. "All the important stuff. You did a good job. With me. Not your fault everything went – upside-down and sideways."

"Sam," Dean says, after a moment, "I want you to tell me exactly where you are." There's a tight note in his voice that Sam knows. It's his 'oh my god Sam is being an ass and in trouble again' voice.

"Nowhere," Sam says. "I don't know. It's kind of – yeah. Nowhere. Listen, I think my signal's going to give out. I'm sorry."

"Shut up," says Dean, absently, and Sam can just see his face when he says it. "Sam. Don't lie to me. How bad is it?"

"M'not hurt," Sam says, though it sounds much less convincing this time because his face is freezing and maybe he is still bleeding, it feels like something is half empty and it's not a glass. Dean makes a derisive noise.

"Don't give me that crap. How bad is it?"

Sam considers his leg, and the snow, and the empty field all around him, and decides he's probably safe. He lays his head down in resignation, and says, carefully, "Look, you've got to promise not to do anything stupid."

"Shit," says Dean, and Sam laughs.

"Yeah," he says, "Basically." Sam pauses a moment, and chews his lip. "I'm telling the truth, though. I really don't know where I am."

"Sammy-" Dean's voice is strangled, and Sam shakes his head before realizing that Dean can't see it.

"No, seriously. Shut up. Don't – just don't. It's okay." His chest's gone all tight and he thinks it's emotional but it's kind of hard to say. "It's okay."

"Sam. Where the fuck are you."

"Let go."

"_Sam._"

"I'm sorry." Sam lets his muscles ease. Business taken care of, now he can relax.

"I hate that. I hate it when you say that. I'll get your GPS, you moron."

Sam snorts. The snow's coming down thicker and faster every minute. They'll never get here. He doesn't say that, though. Just, "Jerk." Dean doesn't answer. He hears his brother take a breath and it sounds…wet.

"Hey, Dean," he says, "Hey, Dean. It's fine."

"I'm calling Cas on you," Dean says, and there's a little tremor in his voice. "Jesus! You little – Sammy, this isn't – God. Just stay on the phone, okay?"

"Okay," Sam says, and settles back into the wet ground, the snow building up around him. "Though I really do think I'm going to lose signal soon."

"Don't," Dean says, like Sam can somehow help it, and he smiles up at the cloudy skies. The flakes are falling in his eyes. This is probably the part where his life should be flashing before his eyes. Sam's pretty glad it doesn't. He's sinking faster now and he really does mean it. It's okay.

There are snowflakes on his eyelashes. He blinks, and they don't melt. He can hear his brother breathing hard, trying to move faster than is possible.

"Dean," he says, quietly.

"Yeah?" Dean's voice is tight, distracted, not really listening. Sam smiles. He can almost hear the hum of the Impala and the beat and blast of Metallica through old speakers. Everything's okay. The snow is quiet and his mind is quiet and his body is winding down.

"Dean," Sam says, "It's snowing."


End file.
